Echoes of Old Songs
by LadyRhiyana
Summary: Music transcends all barriers. Drabbles and ficlets on the Noldolante. NEW: A New Hope. Elros-centric.
1. Echoes of Old Songs

A/N – In Imladris, in the Hall of Fire, Elrond thinks on Maglor and the legacy of his music.

Disclaimer – LotR and the Silmarillion are all property of the Tolkien Estate.

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**Echoes of Old Songs**

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The Hall of Fire was warm and sheltered on a winter's night, a haven of music and art in a rapidly darkening world. Here, the elves of Imladris would gather to tell tales and pass on stories, to play their newest creations or perform works of creators long gone, their music and poetry their only legacy.

As Elrond listened, sipping rich, mulled wine, he could hear a harpist practicing a delicate, complex web of harmony and melody, each note perfectly and elegantly placed. He remembered that piece, remembered picking it out, slowly, a not-quite-child on a harp too big for him –

"_Yes, that's it. Don't go too quickly; each note must fall in its precise place."_

A courtly dance of Tirion, it was, written for graceful dancers and stately palaces. It had been ridiculously out of place in the wild, brutal wastes of Beleriand.

As the notes flowed more smoothly, the precise, measured cadence gave way to richer, stronger melody, pathos and imagery swelling as the harpist moved to something simpler and yet much more powerful.

"_The most powerful songs – the ones that resonate most with us - come from the heart and soul, not the mind. Melody, metre, theory – the bare bones are technique and mathematics, but music is more than skill and passionless intellect…" _

Save for Daeron, the lore master of the Sindar, Maglor Feanorion was accounted the greatest bard in the history of the Eldar. His greatest songs and poems were masterpieces of deceptively simple complexity, gloriously woven harmonies and interlocking melodies, shaped – as most Noldor shaped their art – with great skill and even greater passion.

The Noldolante, so achingly simple, was none of these things. And that, perhaps, was why it endured so long after its creation, when his other, more technically sophisticated music was overlooked or forgotten. Thousands of years after Alqualonde, the Eldar still wept when they heard the lament for paradise lost…

By the fire the harpist faltered, the music slowing to a halt as he slowly drew his fingers from the strings. In the half-light, Elrond could almost imagine a tall, dark, haunted elf-Lord, his fingers long, strong, beautiful, faltering as the power of his own music overtook him.

"_I'm sorry, pen-neth. Sometimes… the memories…"_

After a moment of silence, a brief hesitation, the music resumed; gay and sprightly this time, a playful, frivolous ditty filled with puns, double entendres and alliteration. But underneath the laughter in the hall, the echoes of the Noldolante remained, a bittersweet undercurrent of grief, the ever-present memory of sorrow and loss that lay within all of them.

The most powerful songs, after all, were those that resonated with the heart and soul, not with the mind…

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	2. Common Cause

**A/N – **Music transcends all barriers.

**Disclaimer** – I don't own the Silmarillion, any of the canon characters, situations or settings. Don't sue.

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**Common Cause**

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The storm blew up without warning.

Caught by surprise, Gil-Galad and Elrond hastened to find what shelter they could, finally coming across a tiny huddle of wattle and daub huts, a small human village. Hammering on the framework of the largest hut, they waited, shivering in the rain, until a shivering mortal emerged to offer them wide-eyed hospitality. Gratefully, they stepped inside the fire-lit hut, thankful merely for warmth and shelter – and then stopped, faced with at least a score of humans, all watching them with poorly disguised fear and awe.

Gil-Galad's attention was caught by a very young girl-child, no more than two or three years old, who stared at him, fascinated, with long-lashed, liquid dark eyes that would break hearts when she grew older. She scrambled up to her feet and toddled towards him, giggling, before her mother hastened to gather her up, close to her breast.

Self-conscious now, they accepted the place of honour nearest the fire-pit, and graciously thanked their host for a steaming bowl of stew. It was hot, and soon enough they were warm and dry, and they were grateful for small mercies. As they ate, they could feel the villagers' eyes upon them.

The villagers were of the old, old blood, their eyes dark and unfathomable, filled not with noble wisdom but with the ancient knowledge of their own mortality. They were closer to the earth and the cycle of the seasons than their Numenorean cousins, their lives shorter, harsher, and simpler – these were the mortals of long-lost Beleriand, wary, secretive, holding fast to what little they had with grim, stoic determination.

"They have never before had elven guests," Elrond murmured to him, warming his hands against the clay bowl of stew. "Their tales speak of the Golden One, long, long ago, when the world was new – but they thought him a myth, not flesh and blood reality."

Finrod Felagund, who had been cousin to Gil-Galad's father –

For a long, terrible moment, Gil-Galad felt the weight of thousands of years weighing down on him.

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Later, as the storm continued to rage outside – thunder crashing, wind roaring, torrential rain pounding against the flimsy roof – one of the mortals brought out a small, battered lap-harp, his eyes bright with dreams and fascination.

Elrond hesitated a long, long time before reaching out to take the harp and cradle it on his lap. His eyes distant and focused on some strange inner landscape, he sat by the guttering fire-pit and plucked absently at the small instrument. He played single notes, at first, almost at random, and then slowly he began to weave them together, until they coalesced into half-recognised melody and song. It was an old, old song, rarely heard now, an ancient mortal hymn to their hidden, earthy gods; Gil-Galad thought he saw some of the old, dark-eyed crones nodding in solemn recognition.

It was not a night for merry, spritely music; Elrond played simple songs and mournful ballads, complex court melodies and strange, alien songs of men, switching effortlessly between Sindarin, the High Tongue, and the human tongue. The music wove webs of comfort and magic inside the crowded, over-heated hut, while outside the storm crashed and howled.

Finally, as the night grew old, Gil-Galad recognised the stark, deceptively simple introduction to Maglor Feanorion's _Noldolante_. Gil-Galad had heard it played thousands of times before, countless bards, minstrels, and musicians echoing the familiar chords and verses – but here, in the firelit dark, it was as if it was his first time again, hearing the words in the hoarse-velvet tones of Maglor himself, on the night before the last assault on Thangorodrim.

The humans, too, wept to hear of paradise lost, some common chord of grief and mourning allowing them to understand the lament, though Elrond sang it in the ancient style, in the formal Quenya of the kinslayers themselves.

And then, when the last shimmering chords finally faded away, there was no applause, as might be expected of such a performance, but profound silence. The humans blinked and shook their heads, as though emerging from a dream, and the head man stood to bow with simple dignity and gratitude to his remarkable guests.

Gil-Galad bowed in return, and Elrond, once he had shaken off the spell of the music, inclined his head. There was no more talk or chatter, but a quiet agreement that the night was over – a yawning villager showed them to their pallets, nearest the fire, and Gil-Galad and Elrond cast themselves down with genuine gratitude.

Outside, the driving wind had calmed, and the rain subsided to a gentle murmur. In the warmth and fragile shelter of the human settlement, Gil-Galad and Elrond slept.


	3. Alqualonde

**A/N** – 3 x 100 word drabbles. The idea that Maglor did his music training in Alqualonde is a fanon one, rather than canon.

**Disclaimer** – Not mine. Alas. No money was made in the writing of this.

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**Alqualonde**

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1.

It is no easy thing, even in Valinor, to forgive the Feanorions. Kinslayers thrice over, murderers and oathbreakers, they had broken every faith but one, destroying the peace, trust and innocence of Aman.

And yet, they would not be so hated now if they had not once been so loved. In the dawn of the Eldar's youth, when the Trees still shed silver-gold light over Valinor, the sons of Feanor had been the brightest, the best-beloved of them all. Those born afterwards, after the fall, after had no chance to know it –

And those who remembered wished only to forget.

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2.

"Tell me, Master Elrond," the fierce, gruff Chief Bard of Alqualonde begins. "They say you were once foster-son to Maglor Feanorion."

Elrond nods slowly. "Yes," he confirms. "Once, long ago."

For a moment, the old man's expression shifts, revealing an ancient, weary grief. "He was my student, once. Before…"

Since coming to Alqualonde, Elrond has seen many different reactions to mention of the Feanorions. He has never before seen this.

The old man regains his composure. "He was the greatest among us, and we will never see his like again. Such a _waste_."

There are no words to answer him.

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3.

Music, laughter and the sound of mingled, joyful voices fill the streets. The Teleri, of all the kindreds of the Eldar, love music and merriment; it was in this city that Maglor had perfected his skill, before.

Maglor spoke of Alqualonde with such love and bitter-sweet regret that for centuries afterwards Elrond has dreamed of walking its crowded streets. The reality is a greater delight than he could ever have imagined.

"Can you play, stranger?" they ask him in the tavern, greeting him with warm hospitality.

He smiles, takes the offered harp, and brings forth a merry, joyous tune.


	4. No Return

**A/N** – Maedhros!angst.

**Disclaimer** – All things Silmarillion belong to the Professor and his estate. No profit was made from the writing of this.

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**No Return**

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Resting against the ruined stone wall of their current haven, Maedhros allows his mind to drift along the path of dreams and memories. Tentative, gentle music drifts up from the room below him, an ancient lullaby from another time, another life, and he allows it to lull him into a state of peaceful emptiness.

All too soon, though, the sweet, simple lullaby merges into a lament. Maglor sings – as he always does, now – of sorrow and grief and bereavement, his dark, rich voice filled with regret. The gold and silver notes of his harp stain the air with almost tangible power; such is the power of his music, which has only become more powerful in the course of their exile. Such personal, intimate Art is only made stronger by tragedy, by endless defeat, and by the hammerblows and shocks of experience and life. But Maedhros, bitter, sardonic, finds it hard to appreciate the beauty in constant grief and melancholy.

There are times when he is tempted to snatch Maglor's harp from him and dash it to pieces. But he is afraid that if he takes Maglor's music from him, his gentle, haunted brother will have nothing left. And though Maedhros has gone so far down the road to damnation that he can never turn back, there are still some things that he cannot bring himself to do.

If he tries hard enough, he can remember Maglor's songs as they were in Aman, joyful and innocent, untouched by death or sorrow. But that time – and that life – was long, dark centuries ago, and there is no way now to return to what once was.

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	5. A New Hope

A/N – Trying my hand at Elros this time.

Disclaimer – I don't own Elros, the Silmarillion, or anything else of the Professor's. Don't sue.

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**A New Hope**

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In this new land of theirs, this _Numenor, _the Edain have little time for looking back. Their days are spent in backbreaking work, carving their first settlement out of untouched wilderness. With their hearts filled with hope, they dream of a glorious future; they left grief and despair behind long ago, and they are wholly committed to their new course.

Unlike the Elves, they are not preoccupied with endless reflection on the past.

Sometimes, in the evenings when the fires have died down, the Edain – fatigued after their long labours – call for music and tales. Elros has not his foster-father's extraordinary gift, to weave chords of gold and silver into imagery so pure it is almost tangible, but his own modest talent is enough. With his old, mellow lap-harp, the only thing he kept of Maglor's giving, he gives them ancient tales of courage and daring, and songs of great love and tragedy. He makes them laugh, he makes them weep; he uplifts their hearts and fills them with hope and joy. As time passes, he creates new songs for his chosen people and their new world.

The one song he will not sing is the Noldolante.


End file.
